’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. ' So I go to Patagonia. I was quite as much annoyed as you were to see Mr. “But if you had?” she said. The loneliness of the place somewhat depressed her. She pointed across the road. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. ” She made some inane response. I felt his heart. “They all catch on,” she said. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. It would be the wrappered world almost at its best. .
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